“Your target could be a guide,” Elliot said.
Carlyle pulled a small laptop from his briefcase. “That’s the first thing I thought of.” He paged through the relevant files. “Two hundred and seventy-five licensed guides have worked on the river since 1997. The majority were locals—carpenters, construction workers, electricians. People well known around town. I’ve also interviewed all the clerical and lodge staff, Marshall’s and Burton’s.”
“Let’s just skip the details and hear the results,” Elliot said.
“If you want an answer,” Bognor said, “you’ll have to let Ric explain how he’s gone about his work.”
“Trust me, Sheriff,” Elliot said. “The commissioner doesn’t have time for background. He just wants a solution to this crisis.”
“We both know your boss will make time if his department becomes the focus of a media blitz.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
Bognor smiled. “It’s pretty obvious. If the Johnston Mountain Project is delayed, everyone in this room will have to explain why the killer hasn’t been brought to justice.”
Elliot said. “Go on with your report, Ric.”
“The people who run boats through the gorge aren’t a bunch of yokels. We’ve had doctors, EMTs, paramedics, cops, and teachers working out there.”
“So you’ve eliminated several obvious candidates,” Elliot said. “What about the other suspects in your files?”
“I’ve gone through the CID database trying to determine if anyone with a guide license has a criminal background.”
“Are you saying we’ve had felons working on that river?”
“Just hold on,” Bognor said. “Have you ever spent any time in a rural upstate jurisdiction?”
Elliot turned to face Bognor. “What difference does that make?”
“Answer me. Have you even been north of Albany?”
“Sheriff, calm down,” Raines said.
“I’ll calm down when I get an answer.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Elliot said.
“Then you wouldn’t understand how things work in an area with unemployment and poverty,” Bognor said.
“You’ve made your point, Sheriff, but I’m sure Professor Carlyle has more to tell us.”
Carlyle handed Elliot and Raines a two-page summary of his analysis. “Six people have been charged with petty theft, shoplifting, and reckless endangerment. Two others were found guilty of possessing cocaine or methamphetamines. Every one of those indictments was dismissed.”
Without taking his eyes from the list, Elliot said, “Care to explain why outfitters continue hiring people like that?”
“Abel,” Bognor said, “If I stopped every BMW cruising through my jurisdiction and had a high-strung drug-sniffing Doberman with me, my jail would be filled with downstate lawyers wearing double-breasted Armani suits.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Raines said.
Elliot stared at Carlyle. “I want to know what your next move is.”
“I’m going upstate early tomorrow morning. The person we’re after has found another route into the gorge. I’m sure that’s where he’ll strike next.”
“This so-called discovery of yours won’t be enough to satisfy the commissioner,” Elliot said. “He wants to see an end to these vicious incidents.”
“We’re also working through a list of suspects. It’ll take a day or two to check them all out.”
“I need to know how long,” Elliot said.
“We can’t give you a deadline.”
Elliot let out an exasperated sigh. “You must have a profile of this maniac by now.”
“We’ve found some of the tools he uses when he commits these crimes and where he hides out in the backcountry. We’re also beginning to understand his habits, how he thinks, how he moves around out there, and how he’s able to elude us.”
“Cut the bullshit,” Elliot said. “What’ll it take to break this case open?”
Carlyle closed his case notes file. “If he makes just one more mistake, we may be able to take him down.”
Elliot stood up. “You have two days. If there’s no breakthrough, we’ll tell the Bureau of Criminal Investigations to sweep through that region with SWAT teams. This case will end quickly when they take over.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Carlyle said.
When Carlyle got home that afternoon, he made coffee and went out into the side yard. It had taken him and Beth three years to find this place. Two hundred acres of unspoiled woods surrounded the house. They could see two mountain ranges from their back porch, but he’d neglected his land this spring. Once the manhunt was over, he’d promised Beth that he would mend the fence near the road, find a way to revive the two giant mulberries bordering the pond, paint the shed, and prepare the garden for planting.
Three miles to the east, the Hudson plowed south toward the ocean. It was nearly an eighth of a mile wide now, a river the color of earth that heaved a hundred thousand cubic feet a second of fresh water toward New York City. A century ago, it had turned lumbermen and backwoods land speculators into magnates. Now, it did little more than move wood chips and rusted scrap metal from America’s decaying heartland to Brazil and Pakistan.
Carlyle glanced up at the window toward Beth’s studio. She’d been sleeping there for the past few days while she put the finishing touches to a new canvas.
“What are you working on?” he’d asked her last week.
“It’s about that day.”
“Does it do any good to keep going over it?”
“I’ll never put it behind me until I turn my fear and rage into…into something else.”
A year before they met, Beth had been attacked one evening while walking through Washington Park, a wooded oasis in the heart of Albany. Grabbed from behind, pleading for her life, she’d fought off a bearded man wearing a filthy red plaid shirt, brown trousers, and unlaced work boots.
His left hand wrapped around her throat, he’d pummeled her almost into unconsciousness. X-rays revealed a fractured right cheek and a broken wrist. The bruises on her face, arms, and chest took a month to disappear. She couldn’t remember how long the beating had gone on, or why. After slamming her to the ground, her attacker had run off.
It took months to reclaim any traces of a
